


A Helping Hand

by Jain



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 19:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain
Summary: It's the worst and longest night of Deret's life, but Cala makes things better.





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophiegaladheon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/gifts).



Cala was stronger than he looked. Of course, given that he looked as though a particularly strong wind could snap his limbs in two, this might be considered damning with faint praise. Yet Deret was sincerely grateful for Cala's deceptively strong arm at the moment. He tried not to lean too heavily on it as they made their slow way to their apartments, but the farther they walked, the more he felt himself failing at this task. Cala bore the weight without complaint.

By the time they reached Deret's bedroom, he was almost tempted to collapse in bed without even removing his boots. Before he could so much as sit down, however, Cala had knelt to unlace his boots without a word and helped pull them off. Then he carefully removed Deret's jacket and shirt, working with particular caution around Deret's bandaged arm.

"Oh!" Cala said suddenly.

Deret looked at him, followed his myopic gaze downwards, and did a quick about-face. It wasn't as though it were an _unusual_ reaction to risking one's life and coming out all right on the other side. He had nothing to reproach himself for in that regard.

It was only...in the past, he'd always known what was happening at times like this. Perhaps it was the pain of his arm, or the shock of almost losing the Emperor, or his exhaustion, or some combination of the three that made him feel so distant from his own body. Even now, he felt half as though he were standing outside himself.

All except the mortification. _That_ he felt with all too much immediacy.

"At least we know you can't have lost too much blood, if there's still enough in your body for that," Cala said in what Deret considered an offensively cheerful tone.

"Just leave," he said, and cringed when it came out sounding like a question rather than a demand.

There was a brief pause, and then Cala said, more gently, "I will if you really want. Or I could help you put on your nightshirt and get you some tea and make sure you're all right. If you'll permit me."

Deret nodded before he even realized he was doing so. Yes, _that_. At this moment, that sounded like all he wanted in the world, and if Cala were willing to give it even after Deret had shamed himself before him, then Deret was--at least on this night of all nights--too weak to turn it down. Even Cala's one-sided familiarity, under which Deret usually bristled, felt like a balm tonight. Cala _knew him_ ; Deret could permit himself to lean on him a little.

"All right," Cala said. There was the sound of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric, the drawer closing again. "Turn around," he said, still in that gentle tone of voice.

When Deret did, he found Cala's eyes fixed unwaveringly on his face.

"Injured arm first, I think." Cala helped Deret thread his bandaged arm through the nightshirt sleeve and tugged the neck smoothly over Deret's head, then held the other sleeve out so that Deret could slide his left arm into it. The folds of fabric dropped down, covering Deret. In the next instant, Cala lifted the nightshirt to his waist.

"Hold this," he said. Deret did, his face hot with embarrassment, as Cala unlaced his breeches and tugged them down, then helped Deret step out of them, somehow managing to touch only what was strictly necessary despite the fact that his eyes were focused carefully on the wall beyond Deret. He went to Deret's bed and turned down the blankets for him. "I'll return in a few minutes with your tea."

At a loss for anything better to do, Deret climbed into bed. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd visit their tiny bathroom first to brush his teeth and wash his face and take a piss, but at the moment, the former two were beyond his capacity to care about and the last physically impossible. So instead he leaned against his headboard, closed his heavy eyelids, and tried to think of anything but the sickening moment when Tethimar had lunged at Edrehasivar with drawn blade and Deret hadn't known if he could stop him.

"Are you awake?" Cala whispered.

Deret opened his eyes. "Yes."

"Then drink this, and then you can go to sleep." He handed Deret a steaming cup that smelled of Edrehasivar's table.

"Chamomile?"

"It's soothing." Cala picked up Deret's hairbrush, lying on his chest of drawers, and nodded at his no doubt rat-snarled topknot. "May I?"

The suggestion felt more uncomfortably intimate than anything Cala had done so far--which included _touching Deret's half-naked body while he had an erection_ \--but his arm ached and his head ached and he felt too tired and blasted out to resist. "Please."

"Let me know if I'm pulling." But Cala's fingers were soft and deft as a seamstress's in Deret's hair as he untied and unpinned it, brushed out the tangles, and braided it into a loose night braid.

Deret sipped his tea, his eyes slipping closed again, and carefully made no sound.

At last Cala was done and the tea was finished: the two coinciding so neatly that Deret half-suspected Cala of timing it that way on purpose. Cala took the cup from Deret and, oddly, placed it on the chest of drawers along with the hairbrush. He gazed at Deret for a long moment before shrugging. "I can give you a hand with that, as well, if you want," he said, eyes flicking briefly to Deret's lap, which was no less...obtrusive...after having Cala's hands in his hair for the best part of a quarter hour. Rather the reverse. And the blankets provided cover, but not absolute concealment.

Deret could only stare at him. It wasn't that he'd never; the imperial guard were soldiers, and soldiers did. Many of them, anyway. But he'd never with _Cala_.

Cala, who was looking at him with the same open, patient, _caring_ expression that he'd worn habitually around Deret for longer than Deret could remember. Though as the silence drew out, Deret thought he could see a hint of discomfort appear on Cala's face...perhaps even fear?

That was intolerable. They were Edrehasivar's First Nohecharei; they were _partners_. Cala must not fear him.

And if Deret forced himself to consider Cala's offer, he had to conclude that it wasn't unwelcome. If he'd never thought of Cala that way before, then it was because he'd never let himself, not because he didn't want to.

"All right," he said, his voice hoarse despite the tea he'd just finished.

A quick smile brightened Cala's face and made it beautiful. His hands urged Deret to shift over on his bed and to lie down, and then he tugged the blankets down to the tops of Deret's thighs and sat beside him. "Try not to move too much. I don't want you reinjuring that arm," he said and pulled Deret's nightshirt up above his waist.

Deret kept his eyes open just long enough to watch Cala wrap long, slender fingers around his cock, before letting his head fall back on his pillow with an immoderate groan and his eyes fall shut. He felt almost entirely present in his body again, as Cala stroked him with an expert touch once, twice, thrice.

"Mmm," Cala said after the third stroke...a considering sound. He lifted his hand away, but before Deret could become concerned, he said, "I'll be back momentarily." There came an unexpected soft touch on Deret's forehead--a kiss--and then Cala was gone.

Deret didn't attempt to question him; he didn't even open his eyes. A part of him was amazed at how he was behaving, but that wasn't enough to shake him out of it. Perhaps he was too tired and injured to do otherwise. Perhaps it was just that he trusted Cala enough. Regardless, he lay quiet and still and open: to each breath that filled and emptied his lungs, to the throbbing pain in his arm, to the far more pleasurable throbbing sensation in his temporarily neglected erection, to the faint sounds Cala was making elsewhere in their apartment.

The sounds came closer, followed by a sharp inhale. Cala had returned.

"Besh--" He cut himself off abruptly; continued in a whisper, " _Now_ are you asleep?"

Deret opened his eyes at that. Cala was staring at him with an expression that Deret had never seen on him before. He pretended to ignore it. "Like this?" he asked instead, his voice incredulous, as he gestured to his body with his good arm.

Cala grinned. "Well, you _are_ injured. And awake for the past...twenty or so hours?"

Deret thought it was likely more than that; he'd woken up early the previous morning to visit the training yards. Not that he was going to say so and distract Cala further. And indeed, Cala responded to his silence by rejoining him on the bed, his smile softening as he looked down at Deret.

The reason for his brief absence became abruptly clear when he wrapped his hand around Deret's cock again, now no longer just warm and tight but _slick_. Deret's hips shoved upwards without his intending it. Luckily, his injured arm barely twinged in response.

Cala leaned on Deret's left hip with his free hand and continued his strokes. "You don't get as wet as I do," he explained in conversational tones.

Deret choked. It was one thing to offer a friendly hand to a...a brother in arms. It was quite another to _talk_ about it.

Cala's blue eyes blinked curiously down at him, but he didn't ask what had caused Deret's consternation. Nor did he stop the rhythmic motion of his arm, the manipulation of his fingers as he squeezed on each upstroke.

Deret closed his eyes once more and sank into the sensation. He tried not to think on what else Cala might do, that Deret had previously considered unthinkable. Would Cala touch him elsewhere: innocuous places like Deret's shoulders or chest or thighs? Less innocuous places--one place in particular, that even Deret had never touched except for the strict purposes of hygiene? Would Cala kiss him not only on the forehead, but on the cheek, or on the _mouth?_

As if in answer to his silent questions, Cala slid the hand braced against Deret's hip downwards. Deret froze, wanting and terrified in equal measure, but all Cala did was cup Deret's balls in his palm and squeeze gently.

( _All_ he did: as though that weren't already more than any other man had done. It felt good, though, it felt incredibly good, and as long as Cala's hands didn't get even more adventurous, Deret could bear it.)

"You look incredible like this," Cala murmured, and how could Deret have forgotten that the greatest danger with Cala was not what he might do, but what he might say?

Deret felt his blush deepen, and yet he couldn't help the warmth that spread through his chest at Cala's words.

"I knew you were ridiculously strong, but all these muscles aren't nearly as obvious when you have your clothes on."

A pulse of pleasure, almost there...

"I want to see how you look when you spend, will you--"

And Deret was _gone_. He could hear Cala's voice murmuring to him, but it was drowned out by the roaring in his ears as he came all over Cala's busily working fingers.

Cala drew the pleasure out until Deret whimpered a protest, overly sensitive, and then took his hand away. He wiped it on his blue robes. Then he met Deret's appalled stare and shrugged. "They're already covered in your blood. There's no point in avoiding further mess. I'm pretty sure they'll have to be _boiled_ to get them clean."

Deret pushed past his languor to correct that horrible inaccuracy. "You can't boil blood stains--they'll only set. Cold water to wash out the blood, then hot water for the--" He coughed, face flaming. "--other stains."

"Ah." Cala's eyes were almost unbearably kind. "I didn't know that. Thank you."

He swung his legs off the side of the bed, and Deret said, "Wait!"

Cala turned to look at him. "Yes?"

"You haven't…" He couldn't finish that sentence. In the guard, it had always been simple: one offered, and if another accepted, then you took turns until both were satisfied. Obviously, the mazei did things differently among themselves. Yet even if it were what Cala was used to, Deret couldn't allow him to...to _service_ him without reciprocation.

"I don't want you tearing that arm open again. Besides, I don't know if I even can tonight."

Deret remembered the look on Cala's face after he'd killed Tethimar, the way his hands had trembled afterwards.

"What _do_ you want, then?" he asked. He braced himself for Cala to ask for another impossible thing: a hug, a kiss on the mouth, a night spent curled safe and warm in Deret's bed.

But Cala only smiled at him. "This was enough. Thank you."

Deret didn't understand, quite, but he could nonetheless see that Cala meant his words truly.

"Will you sleep now?" Cala asked.

"Yes," Deret said. The image of Tethimar lunging for Edrehasivar was still waiting for him behind his eyelids, but it couldn't win against the bone deep relaxation of his body. "Will you?"

"I will." And Cala leaned down to kiss Deret on the forehead one last time before leaving him to his rest.


End file.
